Muse, Interrupted

Stories lost in no man’s land,
ideas fleeting through the mind,
before one could catch them,
be possessed by them
we do manage to catch
ideas, dead, dry like creepers hanging on to empty skeletons of their former selves,
characters who refuse to open up their souls to you,
a medley of distractions,
chasing without a target, rhyme, reason
 
the muse, how long will she wait?
and why?
we all believe we’re special
raised on a diet of pulped up culture
and peppy psychology of winning
we’ve turned the mirrors into disco lights
we’re dazzled by their empty iridescence
and when
at the end of the day
we turn ’em off
we wonder why we didn’t
get enough done
and perfect that we are
in our own exalted images of selves
we find an honorable blame
enough to prove our conscience
a generic, opaque fallibility

 

we fail like everyone else
but we want to succeed like no one has
and we don’t
the muse leaves
to better homes, or better prospects at any rate
and we stare
at the emptiness
in disbelief
a shallow incomprehension
because we’ve lost
the habit of hanging on
to a futile looking dream
like the creepers, almost dead

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